Winter

Now lies Adonis in Prosérpine’s breast, Who o’er him spreads a mantle lily white, And every dryad, with disordered vest, Teareth her hair for sorrow at the sight. And ere he waketh, many an eye, now bright, Shall deaden; many a rosy cheek shall pale; O’er many a fair, young head shall rise the wail Of those whom Death hath spoiled of their delight. And, when, at touch of Spring, the winding sheet That wraps thee now, Adonis, melts to flowers, To deck thee for thy Queen; and sunny Hours, Dancing around thee on their soft swift feet, Sing “Wake, Adonis;” many a one shall weep For those that in the Earth’s dark bosom sleep.